In winter's last days in March,
the migration of nomadic violets
is lovely.

On bright middays in march
when they move the violets from cold shadows,
into Spring's satin scent,
in small wooden boxes,
with roots and soil
          —their moveable homeland—
to the side of the street:

A stream of thousand murmurs
boils within me:
               I only wish
               I only wish that one day
               man could carry his country with him,
               like the violets
               (in boxes of soil)
               wherever he be pleased,
               In bright rain,
               in pure sunlight.